


(these arms are) all i have

by windfalling



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-18 08:17:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14849084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windfalling/pseuds/windfalling
Summary: She had come to him in her grief and presented herself as an offering and known he would not deny her.In the aftermath of the Chinatown trip, Lucy finds herself at Flynn's door.





	(these arms are) all i have

**Author's Note:**

> title from the song _arms_ by the paper kites, which i've listened to on repeat for the past two weeks. takes place during the finale, but in some alternate universe out there where they got more than five minutes of downtime before the future!lifeboat shows up.
> 
> this is also nothing but absolute self-indulgence. and was supposed to be like, way angstier than it turned out to be for what started out conceptually as just grief!sex, but anyway, i’m just. gonna leave this here goodbye

 

 

Lucy spends the past hour staring up at the ceiling after Jiya finally falls asleep, the sound of her sobs still echoing in her ear. She tries not to think about Rufus, but she keeps seeing it her mind, the gunshot like thunder in her ears, and then him lying on the ground. She keeps seeing _them_ —her mother, sister, Rufus, all the people she loves, taken away from her one by one.

It’s almost like the time she’d been with Rittenhouse, all those weeks spent thinking he and Wyatt and the others were dead. That same feeling of impulsive recklessness, fueled by loneliness and grief. _I would’ve done anything_ , she’d said to Wyatt, and she remembers the exact pressure it took to pull the trigger, and the split-second relief and devastation when nothing happened.

There had been a moment, when Emma had her pinned to the ground with her ears ringing from each blow, where she’d stopped fighting. All the borrowed strength from her rage had faltered, and she’d gone still with an almost peaceful inevitability washing over her.

Flynn had come after her, then. He'd set his gun at her side, and she hadn’t hesitated that time, but her shots had still fired wide, and Emma had disappeared. He’d held her for a long time, after. It hadn’t been until he’d mentioned Jiya and Wyatt, still waiting for them, still alive, that she’d gathered enough strength to stand.

She hadn’t realised he’d been injured until after, either, when he’d held held his arm close to his chest, when she’d realised the blood on her sleeve wasn’t hers. But he’d held her hand the whole way back.

 _Why are you here?_ she’d asked.

She’s still waiting for his answer.

 

 

 

Lucy finds herself at his door. She doesn’t knock, this time.

She steps inside and closes the door behind her. Flynn’s lying in bed atop the covers, propped up on a few pillows, a book in hand. He looks surprised to see her. Flynn sits up and swings his legs over the edge, wincing slightly as he does so.

“Lucy.”

He eyes her warily as she walks up to him. She doesn’t stop until she’s right in front of him, the front of her legs touching his knees.

Lucy holds his gaze, and then pulls her shirt off in one swift movement.

The book slips from his hands to the floor. If she’d been self-conscious of all the bruises and cuts before, all her doubts disappear when she sees the look on his face. His eyes go dark. He swallows, and she feels the weight of his gaze traveling down her body as a physical thing. But he doesn’t move.

She hadn’t thought past the shirt part. If she were being honest, she’d half-hoped that he would be so overcome with lust at the sight of her that she wouldn’t need to say anything at all.

His hands have stayed at his side, curled into the bedding until his knuckles have gone white with restraint. Finally, Flynn says her name again, his voice gone rough around each syllable. It’s more of a question this time.

She says, “I can’t sleep.”

That’s all he needs to hear, apparently. Flynn wraps his good arm around her waist, tugging her closer until she’s straddling him, her knees resting on the edge of the bed. She kisses him, ignoring the sting of her broken lip, but she does gasp when he touches a particularly tender spot at her ribs. He immediately pulls away with a frown. His eyes trace the line of bruises on her skin, and his fingers follow, so feather-light that she shivers. His jaw clenches when he gets a better look at her neck, his expression darkening in an entirely different way, and something in her chest tightens.

“Flynn,” she says quietly, and when he doesn’t immediately respond, she says, “ _Garcia_ ,” and _that_ gets his attention.

He wavers. “Lucy—”

“It’s okay,” she says, she doesn’t want him to be gentle, not this time, not now, “I’m okay, please, I just—I need—I _can’t_ —”

She cuts off with a sigh when he finally moves again. He trails little kisses up to the soft skin behind her ear, and she shudders against him when his hand slides up her waist to her breast, his thumb stroking circles around her nipple. He makes his way down to her collarbone, the hollow of her neck, to her other breast, and she arches against him when he takes her nipple into his mouth. His other hand brushes against her skin—and he suddenly grimaces in pain, pulling back.

“This damn arm,” he growls, and glares down at the offending limb, held in position with a makeshift sling. Despite everything, her mouth turns up in a half-smile at the look of frustration on his face.

“Let me,” she says, and wriggles forward to balance herself less precariously on his lap. He inhales sharply, steadying her with his good arm again. It takes a bit of awkward wrangling, but she manages to get his sweatshirt off.

“This is not how I imagined this going,” he informs her with a grumble when she helps him adjust his sling.

She blinks, pausing to turn that over in her head. He, too, goes still when he realises what he said. Flynn averts his gaze as his skin flushes, suddenly so uncharacteristically shy, and it’s the most endearing thing she’s ever seen.

She’d known, even before, that he’d wanted her. She had come to him in her grief and presented herself as an offering and known he would not deny her.

Lucy swallows past the knot in her throat. She sets her palm against his chest, so the tips of her fingers brush the hollow of his throat, and she says, “You’ll just have to make it up to me next time, then.”

His shudder echoes through her skin. As she runs her hands across each scar, each raised ridge and faded pink line, his eyes drift shut, and she leans in to kiss him once more.

 

 

 

This is what she wanted: his mouth, soft and yielding to hers. His strength, bound in corded muscle, bending to her will. Her name, consecrated on his tongue as a prayer.

He takes the desperation and grief in her mouth and answers it in kind, his movements less gentle now, but with a certain reverence, like she was something precious in his arms. When his hand slides between her thighs and finds her wet, he makes a noise, low in his throat, that thrums through her veins.

Flynn likes to take his time, she realises. He has her grinding against the heel of his palm, his two fingers thick inside of her, but it isn’t enough. She goes for the button of his pants, but she fumbles and gasps when he curls his fingers, and she presses her face into the crook of his neck, breathing heavily. He kisses the top of her head in a gesture that makes her feel strange and off-kilter again, and she tries not to think of it.

“Wait,” she breathes, and his hand stills, but he doesn’t withdraw. She lifts her head so she can look at him. “I want,” she begins, and then falters.

“Yes, Lucy?”

His voice, low and rough, sends a shiver through her, and she rocks her hips against him reflexively. A faint smile curves his lips.

Lucy narrows her eyes. She doesn’t fumble with the button this time, and she strokes him through his boxers, earning her a stifled groan. “I want you,” she says, and she says it again for good measure, adding his name, his _first_ name, and that’s what sends him into action, she thinks.

When the rest of their clothing is tossed to the side, she finally, _finally_ takes him into her, sinking down on top of him until their thighs are touching, every inch of bare skin between them the sweetest agony. He lets her take him as she wanted, lets her set the pace with only his hand on her hip as a guide, pressing into her skin hard enough to bruise.

Flynn watches her with a heavy-lidded gaze, tracking every shiver and gasp, every needy noise that escapes her lips. She’d wanted this, to feel wrecked and undone, to not have to think about anything at all, but every time she starts to drift, he demands her presence with her name on his tongue, his hands pulling her hips in closer, deeper, to anchor her to the present.

There’s a tremor in her bones, and she doesn’t realise she’s saying something until she hears herself faintly, as if from a distance, just _please_ and _more_ and _Garcia_ , a litany of desire swallowed by his mouth on hers. He slides a hand between her legs again to rub against her, and it only takes moments for her to come, shuddering and trembling in his arms.

Lucy pulls herself back together in fragments. The first thing she notices is that he isn’t wearing his sling. She isn’t sure when that happened, but she likes the weight of both his hands on her, so she decides to worry about it later. He’s still hard inside her, too. Flynn’s breath catches when she tries and fails to move farther than an inch, her thighs giving out on her.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, dragging her eyes up to his. There’s the beginning of a smirk on his face, and she can’t help clenching around him again, just to see that flicker of composure.

Flynn gives her a mock glare and she smiles at him innocently. He grips her waist, and suddenly, he’s lifting her up and laying her down on the bed, so quickly that she blinks up at him in surprise.

“Your arm—”

She starts to push herself up on her elbows in concern as he rolls his shoulder back with a wince he isn’t entirely able to stifle.

“It’s fine.”

He’s still seated inside her, and he shifts so that he’s leaning on his uninjured side. When he sees her frown, his thumb brushes against her lips, and he leans down to kiss her until she’s no longer frowning, until the furrow between her brow smooths out, and there are no more distractions.

He takes her slower, this time. She wraps her legs around him, locking her ankles at the small of his back and tugging him closer, liking how his weight settles on top of her, how his arms bracket her on each side. She runs her hands over his chest, his shoulders, and her mouth traces the same path he’d made on her earlier, pressing kisses to his collarbone, his neck, his jaw, reveling in the sounds he makes when she does.

She cups the side of his face before she can think better of it. His eyes meet hers, and there’s a familiar softness to his gaze. Before she can pull away, he turns his head to press his lips to her palm in a tender gesture that makes her throat go tight again.

Flynn had held her like this before. It had only been hours ago that he’d cradled her to him, so gently that she’d felt herself fall apart that much more.

Her breath hitches in a way that makes him go still. She doesn’t know what her face shows, and she still feels unraveled and undone and raw, but it’s different now, and she can’t explain it, so she tries to distract him instead by kissing him and nudging his hips forward with her legs.

“Lucy,” he says, voice hoarse, and there it is again, that twist in her chest, but she ignores it, she kisses him harder and knows that all she has to say is _please,_ so she does. She whispers it in his ear, urges him to move faster, and he obeys.

It doesn’t take long for his rhythm to stutter and falter. He buries his face in the crook of her shoulder and she winds her fingers through his hair, holding him to her. All that careful restraint and control falls apart, and he comes with her name on his lips.

 

 

 

After, Lucy tries and fails to gather her clothing together in a completely nonchalant way. She doesn’t have alcohol as an excuse to stay, this time, and she’s not in the mood for conversation. Lucy had come to him wanting to forget, to be distracted—and she’d gotten that, and now they were done.

She can feel Flynn watching her as she tugs on her shirt. He says, very quietly, “Lucy.”

Her hands curl into the fabric of her sweatpants. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and then turns around to face him.

“I, um. Should go.” She’s no more eloquent than she had been that first night, when she’d accidentally fallen asleep in his bed. Lucy bites back another awkward thanks, and she can’t quite look him in the eye.

“You don’t have to. You can stay, Lucy. If you want.” He pauses, and then his voice goes hesitant. “I would like it if you did.”

She thinks of going back to that room, back to the weight of that silence and Jiya’s grief and her own and the emptiness of it all—and she looks back at him. Flynn, the only person here she can talk to, who had listened to her and made her smile and tucked her in his bed that night. Flynn, who knows her like no one else does.

( _I want you_ , she’d said, and it hadn’t been a lie.)

Her sweatpants fall to the floor, decision made. Flynn shuffles to the edge of the bed so that she’s on the side of his good arm, in between him and the wall. He reaches out and she curls into his side without hesitation. Within minutes, she falls asleep thinking about all the different ways he says her name.

 

 

 

_Why are you here?_

She’s no longer searching for the answer.

 


End file.
